


All In Good Time

by saidthegrasstotheleaf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Days OTP Challenge, Eventual Smut, M/M, Magic, Potterlock, eventual slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:46:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saidthegrasstotheleaf/pseuds/saidthegrasstotheleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 episodes in the life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as they study magic at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it would be a good idea to motivate myself by doing the [30 day OTP challenge](http://ericandy.tumblr.com/post/26596382488/ericandys-30-day-otp-challenge)! I had actually finished a different first chapter when I thought how fun it would be to to a Potterlock 30 day OTP instead, and... well, here it is. I'm hoping it will encourage me to stop agonizing over everything that I write and push me to publish things more often, because I'm terrible at that.
> 
> Things are going to be pretty kid-friendly for a while, but I am planning on eventually rating this as a "Mature" fic, so be advised if that's not your cup of tea. Hope you enjoy!

Sherlock eyed the barrier between platforms 9 and 10 nervously.  It seemed very solid, and Sherlock wondered again if he wasn’t the victim of an extremely elaborate hoax. 

It had to be real, it just _had_ to be.  Only a month and a half previously a man with a long white beard and twinkling blue eyes had shown up at his door, wearing a funny purple suit that made Sherlock’s father raise one eyebrow.  The man had invited himself into their parlor (Sherlock still wasn’t sure how he had managed it), and handed him a thick envelope with his name written in green ink.  Inside was a letter, which read: 

 

 

> _Dear Mr. Holmes,_  
>   
>  We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
>  Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.  
>   
>  Yours sincerely,  
>   
>  Minerva McGonagall  
>  Deputy Headmistress 

 

There had followed a number of pages telling him to buy things like plain work robes (black), a cauldron, a load of books with odd titles like _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_  (which Sherlock had already devoured), and, most extraordinarily, a wand.  Sherlock had tried a few simple spells, and they seemed to work.  One particular charm had allowed him to unlock Mycroft’s bedroom door and leave a dead sparrow under the nightstand, which was intensely satisfying. 

His father and mother had protested.  Sherlock was meant to go to Eton like his brother, not some freak school in the north.  And, oh, how Sherlock had wilted at hearing that word that had previously fallen only from the mouths of his tormenters at school. 

Now, standing on the platform, Sherlock nearly doubted himself.  But surely it couldn’t all have been faked?  The secret alley in London with all the wonderful shops, surely that was real?

He closed his eyes and steeled himself, pushing his trolley forward.  He was nearly at the barrier, two feet away, one foot away, and then – 

There was a rush of warm air as he stepped forward into open space.  He glanced up and gaped to see a sign that read in official gold lettering, “Platform 9 3/4.”  He’d done it. 

The Platform was teeming with people.  The children seemed to be dressed normally, but the adults were mostly wearing robes of varying styles and colors.  A barn owl whizzed inches over his head and Sherlock ducked, watching as it flew away to perch on the outstretched fist of a man with shocking lime-green hair.  Sherlock straightened and let out a shuddering breath.  What now? 

“You a first year, sweetie?” 

Sherlock jumped and spun to look at the person next to him, a stocky woman with dark blonde hair and laugh lines around her blue eyes.  She was wearing creamy white robes and a bright yellow hat, and Sherlock thought she looked like a bit like a fried egg.  He nodded warily at her. 

She smiled.  “Muggle born?” she asked kindly. 

Sherlock bristled.  He didn’t like the feeling that other people knew more than him about anything, and despite the fact that he’d only joined the wizarding world a few short weeks ago, he already felt he was at a disadvantage for not being born into a magical family.  “Yes,” he said shortly. 

“Oh, don’t worry about that, dear, you’ll do just fine!  My John can show you what’s what, he’s – Oh!” she threw up her hands in exasperation.  “He’s disappeared again.  Embarrassed of me, I expect.” 

Sherlock stayed silent. 

“Well, I can help you, in any case.  You just take your luggage over there and they’ll load it up for you, have you got it all labeled?  Yes, of course, I see you have, good boy.  You’ll have to change into your robes on the way, have you got them with you?” 

Sherlock nodded and tugged on the strap of his knapsack. 

“Oh, good.  Your mother certainly didn’t leave you unprepared, did she?” 

_My mother has nothing to do with it,_ Sherlock thought bitterly. 

“Well, you just get your luggage taken care of and get on the train then.  There’ll be plenty of people to meet, so you just have a good time.”  She smiled and pinched his cheek, missing Sherlock’s expression of horror.  “And if you see John Watson, you tell him to write to his mother!” she trilled, giving him a slight push. 

Sherlock nodded and walked forward, slightly dazed by the interaction.  He handed his trolley off to the station attendants (watching with fascination as they levitated his trunk into the car) and boarded the train.  He’d already made up his mind to find an empty compartment and settle down to read the book he’d brought with him: _Hogwarts, A History._   It wasn’t technically required reading, but it had looked fascinating and he was keen to catch up on anything his classmates might already know. 

He was starting to despair of finding an unoccupied compartment when he finally spotted one near the end of the train.  He immediately dropped down in the seat by the window, placed his bag in the seat beside him, and slouched down, propping his feet up on the seat opposite.  He pulled out the heavy tome from his pack and buried his nose in it, satisfied that he was broadcasting a perfectly unfriendly demeanor. 

He had just begun to read about the enchantment of the Sorting Hat when the door slid open and a boy with blonde hair poked his head in.  “Er, mind if I join you?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said tersely, not raising his eyes from his book. 

“Too bad then.  Everywhere else is full,” the blonde boy said dryly, falling with a sigh into the seat beside Sherlock’s feet.  “Is that a good book?” 

“Yes.” 

Both boys sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments, the blonde boy fidgeting and Sherlock trying and failing to ignore him.  Finally the blonde boy blurted out, “I’m John, by the way.  John Watson.” 

Sherlock blinked and looked at him properly.  Yes, the family resemblance was clear now.  Same blue eyes, same nose.  “I met your mother.” 

John blushed.  “Did you?  Sorry.” 

“No, it’s fine.”  Sherlock studied him for a moment.  “She told me to tell you to write her.”  John’s face grew even redder, and Sherlock grinned despite himself.  “I’m Sherlock Holmes.” 

John chuckled.  “Now _that’s_ a wizarding name.  I don’t know the Holmeses, though, where are you from?” 

Sherlock blinked and stared at him.  “My parents are muggles,” he said tersely. 

“Oh.”  John looked surprised.  “It’s just, Sherlock’s such an unusual name I thought you had to be from a wizarding family.  My middle name’s Hamish, after my dad.”  He wrinkled his nose.  “You have any idea what house you’ll be in?” 

Sherlock shrugged.  He wouldn’t admit it, but the idea of Sorting made him exceedingly nervous.  What if it went wrong?  What if he didn’t fit anywhere, and the Hat just sat there and never made a decision until they decided it was better to send him home? 

“Mum and Dad want me to be in Hufflepuff.  They’re both Puffs.”  John raised one shoulder in a lop-sided shrug.  “We’ll see.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything.  He did not want to be in Hufflepuff.  The other houses didn’t seem that bad, except maybe Slytherin.  It had been intriguing until he’d read about Salazar Slytherin’s dislike of muggle-borns. 

John was busy fumbling in his pocket and he fished out a pack of cards with a triumphant grin.  “Want to play Exploding Snap?”

  

An few hours later, Sherlock was laughing madly.  The cards burst and fizzled if left too long out of someone’s hand, and it was a race to throw down their cards as fast as possible before they exploded in their faces.  Sherlock had soot on his cheek and John’s right eyebrow was slightly singed, but they were both grinning like fools. 

During that time Sherlock had decided that John wasn’t so bad, as people went.  He didn’t ask stupid questions, and when Sherlock shyly asked him about life in the wizarding world his answers didn’t patronize.  It was brilliant.  Sherlock would almost put up with being a Hufflepuff if it meant he and John could be friends. 

John had also bought a mountain of food from the witch at the trolley, which he’d bullied Sherlock into trying.  The chocolate frog had been quite good (he’d given the card, Imhotep, born 2648 BC, to John), and the Every Flavor Beans had been diabolically entertaining. 

Another bang went off in John’s face and he giggled, slipping down to lie on the floor of the compartment.  “Pass me a Peppermint Toad.” 

Sherlock grabbed one off the top of the dwindling pile of sweets and tossed it to John, who caught it deftly in one hand.  Sherlock looked out the window at the darkening sky.  “We must be nearly there.” 

“Nn?” John grunted and propped himself up.  “Guess we better get changed.” 

They scrambled haphazardly into their school clothes, and not a moment too soon.  The train had begun to slow, and John smiled nervously at Sherlock.  “Ready?” 

Sherlock shook his head.  “No.” 

John giggled.  “Yeah.”

  

They were met outside the train by an absolute giant of a man with a bushy beard and coat that looked like it was made of thousands of bulging pockets, all sewn from slightly different materials as if they’d each been added when the last ones were filled.  The man introduced himself as Hagrid and led them down to a dock at the edge of a smooth black lake where dozens of little boats were tied.  “Two to a boat!” the giant called gruffly, “Don’t worry about paddlin’, they take care ‘o that themselves!” 

Sherlock settled gracefully into one of the boats, smirking when John fell in clumsily.  Once everyone was seated, the boats began to glide forward of their own accord, slowly making their way towards a tall castle at the other end of the lake. 

Sherlock nearly had to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.  This didn’t just _happen_ , there weren’t magical castles in real life.  Instead he looked over his shoulder, grinning at John’s gaping face in the lantern light. 

Soon the boats were bumping up on the opposite shore, and the students began clambering out of them.  Hagrid led them in through an impressive set of doors and handed them off to a stern-looking woman with square glasses. 

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” she said in a crisp Scottish accent.  “I am Professor McGonagall.  In a few moments you will pass through these doors to the Great Hall, where you will join your students.  But first you will be Sorted into four houses…” 

Sherlock tuned himself out.  She didn’t seem to be saying anything he didn’t already know.  He busied himself by looking at his surroundings.  There was a huge tapestry on one wall, and Sherlock’s jaw dropped in surprise as a unicorn poked its head out from behind a woven tree, blinking its stitched eyes at him.  He swallowed and stared as it pranced across the tapestry and disappeared into the foliage.  He felt a sharp poke in his side and turned to see John staring up at the ceiling.  Sherlock followed his gaze and let out a small gasp. 

There were staircases above their heads, but they seemed to be _moving_ , rotating.  _How on Earth is one meant to find their way to class?_ Sherlock thought with despair.  Suddenly he felt a tug on his hand. 

“We’re going in, Sherlock!” John hissed, pulling him forward.  Sherlock followed, keeping hold of his hand. 

The Hall was huge, with four long tables that ran perpendicular to a fifth along the farthest wall.  Sherlock’s cheeks grew hot as he felt the eyes of a hundred students landing on him, and he set his shoulders defiantly, holding his head high as they walked down the aisle towards a stool where a battered pointy hat was sitting in a heap. 

Professor McGonagall pulled out a long roll of parchment and read out in a clear voice, “Albert, Amaryllis!” 

A tiny girl with messy hair stepped forward, shaking as she sat down.  The Hat had only been on her head for a few seconds when it shouted out, “Ravenclaw!”  The girl grinned and jumped off the stool, walking quickly towards one of the tables in a burst of applause.  Sherlock swallowed and felt John squeeze his hand.  _Not long now._  

All too soon McGonagall called out, “Holmes, Sherlock!” 

Sherlock took a deep breath and released John’s hand with reluctance.  He walked forward, frowning slightly at the hat as if he could intimidate it into putting him in the right house.  He sat down and the hat slid down over his eyes, thankfully blocking out the curious faces that stared at him. 

There were a few seconds of silence before a sly voice chuckled into his ear, “Well you’re certainly not a Hufflepuff.” 

Sherlock couldn't help a small grin.  _No, I’m not_ , he thought back. 

The Hat chuckled again.  “You’re a difficult one.  Very bright, I can see that, and not lacking in courage either.  And you’re _competitive_ , too, really want to _prove yourself_ … where shall I put you, where oh where?” 

Sherlock grew more and more nervous as the Hat continued to mutter.  He’d been sitting here for a long time now, minutes at least, and he was starting to hear whispers spreading around the Hall.  _What if I don’t belong anywhere?_ He thought desperately. 

“No no, you belong _somewhere_ , it’s just a matter of _deciding_ ,” the Hat purred. 

_Then make up your mind!_ Sherlock snapped. 

“Well calm down there, sonny boy, it’s not my mind that needs making up, it’s _yours._ ” 

Sherlock fought the urge to slump and put his head in his hands.  _Just… don’t put me in Slytherin._  

“Why ever not?  You could do well there, lots of ambitious young minds there.  _Why ever not?_ ” 

_They don’t like muggle borns there.  I’ll have no friends_ , Sherlock thought before he could stop himself. 

“Ah…” the Hat sighed.  “ _Friends,_ that’s a telling word.”  The Hat was silent for a moment.  “You need looking after, boy.  Better be GRYFFINDOR!” the Hat roared the last word out into the Hall. 

Sherlock felt weak with relief, and he tugged the Hat off his head and made his way to the table that seemed to be cheering the loudest.  He slumped down into the first available seat, wincing as a couple of older students thumped him on the back.  He ignored their congratulations and turned to watch the rest of the Sorting. 

At length, they made it to the end of the alphabet.  John was one of only two students left, and his name was finally called.  John looked pale as he stumbled up the steps to the stool and pulled the hat onto his head.  It sat there mumbling for about fifteen seconds before shouting “GRYFFINDOR!”

Sherlock couldn’t help beaming as John skipped over to join him at the table.  John’s face was pink with happiness.  “Thank Merlin I’m not a Hufflepuff,” he laughed into Sherlock’s ear. 

Sherlock giggled.  “Glad to be a Gryffindor?” 

“Oh yeah,” John whistled. 

 

Later that night Sherlock was lying spread-eagled on his bed, listening to John moan a few feet away.  “I told you not to eat so much,” Sherlock yawned. 

“Shut up, _shut up_ , Sherlock, I swear…” John groaned and curled up on his side. 

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from smiling.  He didn’t think he’d ever been so happy.  He had felt ill fitted to the world for so long, but no longer.  At least for the moment, he felt as if he were in the right place.


	2. Cuddling Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has an accident during Quidditch tryouts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve jumped forward to second year… I’m going to be doing a lot of jumping ahead, which makes me a little sad. Maybe I’ll add auxiliary chapters later if I get the urge? Nevertheless, let us blaze ahead!

“Sherlock!” 

The boy felt a jostling at his shoulder and curled up into a ball, groaning as he burrowed deeper under the covers.  “G’way, John.” 

“Sherlock, come on!  It’s Quidditch tryouts today!” 

Sherlock cracked open a sleepy eye and did his best to communicate his displeasure through glaring alone.  It didn’t appear to be working, as John’s smile was only growing wider.  “As I had not planned on attempting anything so absurd as _Quidditch_ , I fail to see why you’ve woken me,” Sherlock said archly. 

John rolled his eyes and sat down abruptly on the bed, prompting a growl from Sherlock as he bounced from the impact.  “I know that.  But _I_ am trying out, and you said you’d come with me.” 

Sherlock blinked and tried to remember.  “Did I?” 

“Yep.”  Something in John’s face twitched, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 

“John Watson, you’re lying to me.” 

John grinned and shook his head.  “Yeah, but come on!  You can watch all the other players, try to figure out their weak points, you know?” 

A huge yawn pushed its way from Sherlock’s mouth.  “Possibly.”  He eyed his friend closely. 

John was sitting carefully still except for the finger and thumb rubbing at the hem of his burgundy tee shirt.  John never fidgeted unless he was nervous, and Sherlock almost smiled.  “ _Fine_ ,” Sherlock sighed, as if being put under the greatest imposition possible.  “I’ll come and watch the tryouts.” 

 

Less than an hour later Sherlock was huddled in the Quidditch stands, scowling as an unseasonably cold wind snuck through his school jumper.  Damn not having a decent coat, damn John Watson for waking him up, and damn this ridiculous wizard sport. 

John was a mere speck on the grass, a blonde head mixed in with a couple of dozen other hopefuls.  The captain of the Gryffindor team was gesticulating animatedly, her words lost over the distance.  Sherlock groaned and collapse back onto the benches behind him.  _Bored, already so bored._  

He heard a sharp whistle blast and dragged himself upright to watch as the players started to take a lap around the pitch. 

He’d seen John fly before, of course.  John’s father, apparently, was mad about Quidditch, and John had learned to fly when he was still a toddler.  He watched as John rose confidently through the air, his movements smooth and easy.  It was quite a contrast from most of the others, and Sherlock snorted in amusement as one unfortunate red-headed boy lurched into the brunette girl beside him, nearly knocking them both off their brooms. 

He watched John fly for a lap or so before turning his attention to the other flyers.  There was the nervous boy, still wobbling violently on his turns.  The girl he’d crashed into before seemed especially wary now, but she looked like a competent flyer, and was even pulling ahead of some of the other students, weaving through them with ease.  She passed a heavyset boy who did not seem to like her, and Sherlock watched as he kicked out at the brush end of her broom.  She shrieked and whirled away, spinning for a bit before getting control with difficulty. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  He knew that boy.  He was a few years ahead of him and John, and had a reputation for being easy to anger.  Sherlock frowned, his fingers itching to send a hex towards the bully.  Just a small one, to see what would happen.  But John wouldn't appreciate it, and Sherlock crossed his arms in a huff. 

He watched as the students were broken up into groups.  John was heading with the largest group towards the goalposts, where one of the current team members was waiting with a large red ball.  John’s group took turns throwing the red ball through the tall hoops before splitting up and tossing it back and forth in various patterns.

Sherlock half-heartedly tried to remember what John had told him about the different positions only to give up almost immediately.  He yawned and closed his eyes, wishing he were still in bed.  He lazily conjured up a thin gold ribbon and began writing with it in the air, creating math problems for his own amusement.  He’d just about figured out the area under the function when he heard raised voices. 

John had one hand up in a gesture of appeasement and he was clearly trying to speak calmly to the heavyset older boy, who was shaking his head fiercely and pointing angrily at John.  Sherlock stood, scanning the field for the captain.  But she was occupied at the other end, doing a demonstration with some sort of short club.  Sherlock’s eyes widened as the older boy shoved angrily at John’s shoulder, and he opened his mouth to scream a warning. 

But John was falling, slipping off his broom even as he tried to grab at it.  Sherlock watched in horror as John plummeted towards the ground and a shrill cry from one of the girls tore through the air.  He launched himself off the stands, sprinting towards the grass. 

John’s body was crumpled on the ground, one arm bending the wrong way underneath him.  Sherlock cursed and skidded to a stop, falling on his knees.  He rolled John onto his side and bent low, brushing some of the mud from his cheek.  “John?  John, talk to me!” 

John groaned and his head moved feebly, eyes squeezed shut.  “Wha?  I fall?” 

Sherlock nearly cried with relief.  “Yes, yes you did.  You need to go to Madame Pomfrey.” 

Another groan.  “She’ll be so pleased to see us.” 

“At least we weren’t breaking any rules this time.”  Sherlock’s grin turned stormy as John chuckled, only to start coughing and wincing with pain.  “Why’d he do it?” he growled. 

“Who?” John croaked. 

“The boy who pushed you.” 

“Who?” 

Sherlock was starting to get seriously worried now.  “John.  What day of the week is it?” 

John blinked up at him.  “Monday?  No, that’s not right, is it?  Sunday?” 

Sherlock’s stomach twisted with anger.  He was already formulating several plans for revenge when the rest of the students finally came running up.  The white-faced captain knelt down beside them.  “Is he okay?” 

“Of course not!” Sherlock snapped.  “He’s broken his arm and he has no idea what day it is.  He is certainly not _okay_ , you pathetic _moron._ ” 

“Sherlock,” John tried to interject wearily. 

“Shut up, John.  We’re going to the hospital wing.”  Sherlock helped John carefully to his feet, glaring furiously at everyone.  “Out of the way,” he barked, one arm around John’s shoulders and the other clutching onto this hand tightly. 

Sherlock complained and raged all the way to the hospital wing, expounding on the general idiocy of the populace and of certain athletes in particular while John listened patiently, a smile threatening to twitch onto his face.  The way Sherlock was carrying on you would think _he_ was the one with broken bones.

As expected, Madame Pomfrey was a little less than pleased to see them in her ward again.  She tutted disapprovingly during the examination.  “Two fractured ribs, a broken arm and a nasty concussion.  Mr. Watson, when will you start taking care of yourself?” 

“It was just – ouch! – just an accident,” John gritted his teeth as she examined the nasty bump on the back of his head. 

“It most certainly was not.  John was pushed off his broom,” Sherlock said angrily. 

Madame Pomrey pursed her lips.  “I’ll have to tell your head of house, Mr. Watson.  Now, keep your arm as still as you can.” 

John breathed harshly through his nose as she lifted his arm and waved her wand over it a few times.  “Feels burny,” he gasped. 

“Does it?” Sherlock leaned in to poke at the healing arm, only to adopt a wounded expression as John slapped his hand slapped away. 

“Stay out of it, you.” 

“Now a deep breath, Mr. Watson,” Madame Pomfrey said briskly. 

John inhaled, screwing up his eyes as the witch repeated her actions over his ribs.  “Bloody hell,” he said weakly. 

“Language, Mr. Watson!” 

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock behind her back. 

“Now then.  How’s that?  Any discomfort when you breathe?  Any sensation of pulling or tightening when you move?” 

“No ma’am.” 

“Very good.  I’m going to have to give you a potion for your head, I’m afraid.  It’s not terribly nice to take, but you’ll be feeling all better soon.”  She flicked her wand and a potion in a stout black bottle materialized on the tray beside her.  “Cere- _better_!” the label proclaimed in proud white letters, “For all your head injury needs!” 

John watched in horror as she tipped the bottle into a small glass.  The liquid that poured out was thick and viscous, a sick shade of purplish-grey.  It smelled a lot like burnt artichokes.  “I have to drink that?” 

“Yes.” 

John looked at Sherlock for help, only to see him eyeing the potion curiously.  “Can I try some?” 

“No you may not,” Madame Pomfrey said wearily.  “Drink up.  You’ll want to sleep after taking it, just let me know when to show Mr. Holmes out.” 

John gripped the little glass in his hand and knocked it back, gagging as it slid down his throat.  “Ugh!”  He coughed, sticking out his tongue.  “It’s like it’s coating the inside of my mouth, _ugh!_ ” 

Sherlock surreptitiously tried to sneak the glass into his pocket.  John frowned at him and took it away, handing it straight to Madame Pomfrey.  “Bad dog, Sherlock.” 

Madame Pomfrey smiled.  “You’ll have to stay overnight, Mr. Watson, just so we can make sure your head’s doing fine.  I know you don’t want to,” she held up a hand as John groaned loudly.  “But you’re going to.” 

John leaned back in the hospital cot, closing his eyes wearily.  “My head hurts,” he said quietly to Sherlock as the healer bustled away. 

“I know.  You really don’t remember anything about the Quidditch tryouts?” 

“Is that what I was doing?” John laughed weakly.  “How did I do?” 

“All right,” a voice sounded from the doorway.  John and Sherlock turned to see one of the boys from the Quidditch tryouts grinning sheepishly at them.  Sherlock remembered vaguely that he was in third year and was already on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.  He was very tan, and his brown hair flopped into his eyes in a way that Sherlock knew many girls found attractive. 

“Hey Greg,” John smiled.  Sherlock cocked his head.  He hadn’t been aware the boy possessed a name. 

“Hey.  How’re you doing?” 

“Terribly.” 

“Sucks to be you, I guess,” Greg grinned cheekily.  “You were doing all right, though, before you got knocked off.  Reckon you’re going to make chaser.” 

John gaped at him.  “No.” 

“Yeah!” 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at his friend.  “Congratulations, John.” 

“Thanks.  This isn’t a joke, right?  Not some hallucination?” 

Greg laughed.  “Nah, would I do that to an invalid?” 

“Too many visitors!” Madame Pomfrey called to them, poking her head out from the door of her office.  “I’m afraid Mr. Watson needs his rest.” 

Despite their protests, Sherlock and Greg were pushed out of the hospital wing.  John caught one last glimpse of Sherlock’s face before he rounded the corner and frowned at his expression.  He looked sad and anxious, like something had been taken away from him.  Had he really been so worried?  John sighed and closed his eyes.  He really was feeling exceptionally tired… 

 

When he awoke the sky outside was dark, and the moon shone down through the window.  John blinked, slowly registering that something warm was pressing against his right side.  He turned and saw a familiar profile in the dark beside him.  “Sherlock?”  John’s friend had his hands pressed together under his chin.  In this position he looked like one of the paintings John had seen in the muggle church he’d visited as a small child.  The people in those odd, unmoving paintings had clasped their hands like that too.  Maybe Sherlock went to a church?  He’d never asked.  “Sherlock, what are you doing here?” 

“Couldn’t sleep.”  Sherlock’s voice was quiet.

John eyed him warily.  “You’re not sleeping here either.” 

“I’m thinking.” 

“Right,” John yawned.  “Well, forgive me if I need to sleep.  I’ll see you in the morning.”  He closed his eyes and snuggled into the blankets, slightly glad for the heat Sherlock was giving off. 

There were a few moments of silence.  "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"You haven't done anything to him, have you?  The boy who pushed me?"  No answer.  " _Sherlock_."

"Not as such."

John sighed.  "What did you do?"

"His, ah,  _personal_  magazine collection might somehow have ended up displayed on the common room wall.  In theory."

John chuckled despite himself.  "Well, that's it, okay?  No more plotting."

It was quiet in the hospital ward, except for the slow breathing of the two boys.  John was nearly asleep when Sherlock spoke again.

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"You're doing all right? I mean, your head's better?"

"Yeah, Sherlock."

"Good." Sherlock's voice was so soft John barely heard it, and he slipped off to sleep, unaware as Sherlock brushed the hair back from his forehead and pressed a tentative kiss to his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was foiled by the length of this one too. I would have preferred to just write a short chapter, but twelve year-old boys don’t cuddle (at least, none of the ones I know) and how could I explain it? So I needed a smattering of plot; otherwise it would have stuck out like a sore thumb. And I know conventional wisdom goes against letting a concussed person sleep, but… whatever, it’s magic, these people can turn rhinos into couches and they have a cure for the common cold, I think John will be fine.


	3. Gaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John challenges Sherlock to a game of Gobstones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a short one! A sketch in every sense of the word! I promise I’ll have something longer in the days to come, but I really am exhausted today and this prompt can support something short.

Sherlock was lounging in his favorite fireside chair in the Gryffindor common room, having reclaimed it from a first year unfortunate enough not to know who it belonged to.  Sherlock was upside down with his eyes closed, trying to work out a new potion in his head.  His legs, lengthened by a recent growth spurt, were hooked over the back of the chair, and his head hung off the edge.  He hoped the added gravity would induce some extra efficiency in his mental processes, but so far all it seemed to be doing was giving him a headache. 

Over the summer he’d been reading various books on muggle forensics, which had piqued his curiosity.  Particularly of interest to him had been the chemical called Luminol, which exhibited chemiluminescnece when mixed with the proper oxidizing agent.  Basically put, it glowed blue when blood was present.  It had turned Sherlock onto wizarding forensic techniques as well, and he was wondering whether it might be possible to create a potion that not only identified the presence of blood but also provided information on the person the blood had come from.  It was tricky, and fascinating, and exceedingly difficult to puzzle through. 

The polyjuice potion held some promise.  It somehow analyzed a person’s DNA and created a false image of them on another person’s body.  If he could discover its mechanism, perhaps - 

A squeal of laughter interrupted him and he frowned, jolted from his thoughts.  A sigh escaped him.  He should have known better than to try to get any thinking done here.  “Contain yourself John.”  He snorted unattractively as someone landed a flick on his nose and he struggled to right himself, prompting fresh peals of laughter from his friend.  “How childish,” Sherlock snarled, finally managing to sit up in the chair.

 John didn’t look abashed in the slightest, and merely rolled his eyes and turned back to the game of Gobstones he was playing with Lestrade.  “Want to play the next round, Sherlock?” 

“If the next round is wizard’s chess and not Gobstones, then yes.” 

John groaned.  “Merlin, no.  I always, _always_ lose.” 

“That’s your problem.  Seeing as how I am excellent at everything, I predict you will lose any game you want to challenge me at.” 

Silence.  “Is that so?” John’s voice was sly.  “Want to try it?” 

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair.  “Why bother when I already know the outcome?” 

“Aren’t you always going on about how you need to test theories properly, or something?  That sky-ents thing you’re always talking about,” Lestrade said around a mouthful of popcorn. 

Sherlock shot him a look of derision.  “The word you’re looking for is _science_ , Lestrade.  I weep for the wizarding world.” 

John was grinning at him.  “C’mon.  One game, and I’ll play wizard’s chess.” 

Sherlock considered for a moment before rolling his eyes and sliding down onto the floor.  Lestrade pushed his set into Sherlock’s hands and he eyed the stones disdainfully.  They were of varying sizes, some as small as blueberries and the largest one roughly the size of a ping-pong ball.  Each Gobstone was filled with an evil-smelling liquid that sprayed the loser in the face, and Sherlock was keen not to get any of it on him. 

He could do this.  It was just a matter of physics.

 

Five minutes into the game it was clear he could not do this.  John had knocked nearly all of his stones out already, and Sherlock’s fringe was dripping with yellow, sulfury juice.  Every time a new spurt of the foul-smelling stuff had hit his face both John and Lestrade had collapsed in howls of laughter, and Sherlock was bristling like a wet cat.  New life goal: make John Watson pay. 

He rolled his last Gobstone in his hand, feeling the weight of the liquid inside as it sloshed about.  He had his eye on one of John’s largest stones, roughly the size of a Snitch.  If he were successful in knocking it out, John would get a massive dose of the stuff in his face.  Sherlock grinned and knelt down, taking careful aim.  With a flick of his thumb the ball lurched forward, heading straight for the stone.  Sherlock bit his lip as the stones collided and the larger one began to roll out of bounds.  At the last second it seemed to slow before finally toppling over the edge. 

John threw up his hands in vain as the ball emptied itself, hitting him straight in his mouth.  Sherlock smirked as John sputtered.  Revenge was sweet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this hasn't come out sooner... Life got in the way, as it so often does. I'll be counting this as coming out February 24th, so there'll be another chapter by the end of today (the 25th).

Sherlock lay on his bed, plucking at his violin.  He had a problem.  A John problem. 

He’d first become concerned over the summer holidays.  Since he had left for Hogwarts he found being at home unpleasant.  The summer meant being sequestered in a house without the use of magic and an ever-growing distance between him and his family.  But something had changed, and Sherlock had felt depressed and had been even more withdrawn than usual. 

Then John had visited for a weekend, and the instant he showed up on the front step Sherlock had felt a funny sort of lifting in his chest, as though he’d been wearing a heavy mail shirt that had suddenly vanished, as though ropes wound tightly around his torso had been severed.  It had been wonderful, and slightly worrisome.  Had he really become so dependent on his friend? 

At first Sherlock had dismissed the problem as the result of boredom and gratitude upon seeing his only friend once more.  He didn’t dwell on it, and in fact hadn’t thought about it again until they returned to Hogwarts. 

They had been sitting in potions class, John working diligently as always while Sherlock halfheartedly threw ingredients into his own work, already bored.  Then suddenly he caught himself staring at the way John’s tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth when he was concentrating.  It was simultaneously funny and pleasant to look at, and Sherlock found his eyes drifting back several times.  And then… John had asked him to pass him some powdered sulfur, and as Sherlock handed it to him their hands brushed together.  It had happened before, but not like this, somehow.  Now Sherlock’s hand was tingling, and his chest felt simultaneously too full and empty at the same time. 

Sherlock had found himself with foreign urges since then.  The urge to grasp John’s hand in the hallways, even though they hadn’t done that since first year.  The urge to maneuver John into hugging him, somehow, despite the fact that Sherlock only ever _tolerated_ hugs.  Strangest of all, just once, the urge to kiss John on the mouth, even though Sherlock found the idea of anyone putting their mouth on someone else’s frighteningly unsanitary.  But there was something about John's mouth that was pleasant, and perhaps it wouldn't be too bad.

It was apparent that the problem wasn’t going to go away.  So what was this?  Love?  Sherlock could admit to a certain amount of liking for John, certainly. 

If John were a girl, he’d probably want Sherlock to take him on one of those… date things.  John said that people who liked each other went out and had fun and that was what dating was about, which Sherlock thought was very vague, but then John was the expert, not him.  Sherlock had seen his classmates on dates in Hogsmeade, doing things like visiting the frilly little tea shop or buying chocolate together at the sweet shop.  It didn’t seem like much fun to him, but maybe John would be more interested.  Or maybe it was different when you were both boys?  Lestrade would know, but Sherlock would be damned if he was going to admit ignorance in any subject to _him_. 

He lost himself in his thoughts, beginning to formulate a plan. 

John eyed his friend warily from where he sat on the floor, leaning back against his trunk.  Sherlock had been acting strangely for a while now, fidgeting and losing focus during conversations.  He’d noticed Sherlock looking at him a lot, not the usual scrutinizing stare he used on everyone, just… looking.  Now his friend was frowning as he abused his violin, and his movements were jerky and agitated.  “Er, Sherlock?  You okay there?” 

Sherlock’s face cleared slightly as he was dragged out of his thoughts.  “Hm?” 

“I said, you okay?  You’ve been… kind of out of it lately.” 

Sherlock blinked and gave his violin a quick strum before sitting upright.  “We should go to Hogsmeade on Saturday.” 

John widened his eyes slightly in surprise at the seeming non sequitur.  “…Okay?  I mean, don’t we usually?” 

“We should go together.  On our own.”  Sherlock looked at him pointedly. 

“Well, yeah, okay.”  John felt like he was missing something. 

Sherlock was pleased.  “Excellent.”  He hadn’t expected John to catch on so quickly.  This would be easier than he thought. 

 

Two days later they were walking towards the town.  Sherlock felt as if he might fall apart from nerves, and he was regretting not going to Lestrade after all.  When was the proper time to hold your date’s hand?  Is there anything he ought to say?  He remembered Lestrade saying something about complimenting girls and decided to give it a shot. 

“You look nice, John,” he offered politely. 

John glanced down at himself.  He was wearing a pair of jeans with a rip in the knee and his jacket had a stain on it.  “Thanks, I guess.”  He looked at his friend.  “So do you?” 

Sherlock beamed.  Surely a returned compliment was a sign that things were going well.  “How do you feel about the Shrieking Shack, John?” 

John grinned.  “You thinking of taking a look inside?  I thought you promised your mum you weren’t going to do anything dangerous after the Forbidden Forest incident.” 

“John, the Shack is haunted, not cursed.  Ghosts can’t kill anyone.” 

“Well, it’s an old house, what if you fall through the floor?” 

“Then you’ll levitate me out of it, honestly, we are _wizards_ , John.” 

They smiled at each other. 

 

Whatever John had expected, it was not this.  Sherlock was acting _weird_ , which for him was saying quite a lot.  He’d held open doors in the Shack for him and solicitously placed his hand on John’s back as they were climbing over debris.  He’d even tried to take his hand to help him down from a high step.  Now they were sitting drinking tea in Madame Puddifoot’s, which John would admit served awfully good tea but was very, well, _pink_.  John could see Sherlock’s eyes narrow every time he looked at the frilly tablecloths. 

John drained the last of his cuppa and looked to his friend.  “You want to get out of here?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock blurted, relieved.  If this was expected of every date he wasn’t sure he was going to survive a relationship. 

They ambled down the street, idly window-shopping.  John had just stopped to peer at a heavy velvet-covered book in Zonko’s when Sherlock decided to make his move.  He reached out and took hold of John’s hand. 

John started at the unexpected touch and looked down.  “Uh… what are you doing?” 

Sherlock jerked his hand away, blushing.  “Oh, I… I apologize.  I thought…”  He looked away, the happy warmth that had been resting in his belly all day slowly draining away. 

“You thought what?”  John stared at him, realization gradually dawning on him.  “Wait.  Sherlock.  What did you think we were doing today?” 

Sherlock sneered, but it lacked its usual conviction.  “Surely even you, John, can surmise that we are visiting Hogsmeade.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” John persisted, determined not to get irritated.  “What did you think we were doing today?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing he knew how to Apparate.  Perhaps he could charm the ground to swallow him up, or go live in the lake with the Merpeople and the giant squid.  Anything would be better than this feeling of overwhelming embarrassment. 

“Sherlock?  Look at me.” 

He reluctantly opened his eyes and looked at John.  _Please, John, be kind to me.  Tell me we can forget about this, please._  

“Sherlock, was this a date?” John’s voice was soft.  Sherlock didn’t say anything, but his blush deepened.  “It was, wasn’t it?  Or you meant it to be?” 

Sherlock nodded miserably. 

John couldn't keep himself from grinning, and he started to giggle.  Sherlock threw him a hurt look and turned on his heel, striding away.  “No, wait, Sherlock –“ he launched himself after him and caught the edge of his sleeve.  “Wait.  I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing, it’s just – you should have just _said_ , idiot.” 

“What.”  Sherlock was desperately confused. 

John rolled his eyes, reached out, and grasped Sherlock’s hand firmly in his.  He started walking again and Sherlock followed at his side in a daze.  “You should just ask properly next time.”  John nudged Sherlock with his shoulder and grinned. 

Sherlock couldn’t stop smiling if he tried.


	5. Kissing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First kiss.

Sherlock winced and grabbed onto the handrail as the Knight Bus lurched and skidded around a corner, pulling himself up off the floor as a nearby bed crashed into the wall where his legs had been.  This… might have been a mistake.  But his parents had refused to allow their house to be connected to the Floo network and denied him the use of their chauffer for the drive to John’s house in the south of England.  He’d written to John, convinced their planned New Year’s visit was foiled, but he’d suggested Sherlock call the magical purple bus he was now bouncing around in.

“How much farther?” he yelled up at the conductor.

“Nearly there, just need to let off Mr. Treacher!” the pale, pimply conductor jerked his thumb at a tiny man who seemed more beard than person, his eyes hidden beneath huge red bushy eyebrows.

The bus ground to a halt on a pleasant suburban street, and the bearded man bowed low to the conductor and the driver in turn before hopping to the ground with surprising agility.  Immediately the doors banged shut once more and the bus popped forward, suddenly trundling down a dark country lane lined by trees.

Within minutes the bus was stuttering to a stop, and Sherlock let out a nervous breath.  He’d been to stay with John before, but it felt different now that they were technically dating.  It felt official.  Sherlock hadn’t told his parents about his relationship with John, knowing they wouldn’t approve, but John had assured him that his parents were perfectly fine with it and would be happy to see him.

He swallowed and gathered up his things, clambering awkwardly down from the bus.  He’d started a growth spurt in the past few months, which was pleasing and a source of great amusement because it seemed to irritate John, but he could do without the awkward of his newly stretched limbs.

He’d barely caught a glimpse of the cheery house in front of him before he was tackled to the ground by a short blonde figure.  Sherlock scowled to hide a smile.  “Was that entirely necessary, John?”

“Don’t be an arse,” came the muffled reply before a beaming face popped into view.  “Hey.”

They pushed themselves to their feet and watched as the Knight Bus sped away, popping out of existence at the end of the lane.  “Good journey?” John asked, grabbing Sherlock’s bag and leading him inside.

“Not really.  Interesting, though.”

“Dad had to rush into work last minute, but Mum’s got some food waiting.  She’s very excited to see you.  And I’d avoid Harry if I were you,” John added in an undertone.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him.  John sighed and continued, “She’s become obsessed with you ever since she found out we were together.”

Sure enough, a skinny redheaded girl popped out from around the corner.  Sherlock remembered that she was ten and hoped fervently that she would get over her obsession before she came to Hogwarts the next year.  “Oooh, is that your _boyfriend?_ ”

“You’ve met him before,” John gritted his teeth.  She ignored him and continued to stare squintily at Sherlock.  John rolled his eyes and led Sherlock into the brightly lit dining room.  “Mum!  Sherlock’s here!”

A squeal of delight sounded from a door to Sherlock’s right and John’s mother burst through from the kitchen, sweeping Sherlock up into a hug.  “Oh, so good to see you dear!  Oh my, but you’ve shot up, haven’t you, John didn’t say a word!”

Sherlock smirked at the frown on John’s face.

“But you’re probably starving, I’ll go get the food –“

“I’m not –“

“Sherlock, every time I see you, you say you’re not hungry.  You need food for that growing body of yours, now _sit down_.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her but took a seat at the table.  Better to be on his best behavior than risk angering his boyfriend’s parents.

True to form, Mrs. Watson brought forth a veritable feast: roasted chicken, runner beans with butter, mashed parsnips, fresh baked bread, and even a steaming trout (“Summoned out of our very own pond,” Mrs. Watson proclaimed proudly).  Sherlock helped himself to a bit of everything and politely started to eat.

Harry was still staring at him.  “Have you kissed him yet?” she asked loudly.

John yelped and glared at her.  “Merlin, Harry!”

“Harriet, you sit politely and don’t bother our guest,” Mrs. Watson scolded.

“Well have you?” Harry tried once more.

“Harriet Judith Cerridwen Watson!” Mrs. Watson gasped, her eyes flashing dangerously.  Harry scowled but stayed silent, eating her parsnips with a mutinous look on her face.

Sherlock hadn’t looked up from his plate throughout the entire exchange.  In truth, they hadn’t.  Sherlock had wanted to (and wasn’t that extraordinary), but he had no idea how to go about it.  In truth, he’d been hoping John would make the first move, but John seemed perfectly content to leave their relationship as it currently was.  He snuck a glance at John, who was beet red and furiously shoving runner beans into his mouth, his eyes locked on his plate.

“So, Sherlock,” Mrs. Watson asked smoothly, “how was your Christmas?  Did you get the scarf I knitted you?”

 

Later that evening, after all the food had been cleared away and several games of Exploding Snap, Mrs. Watson yawned mightily and stood, ordering Harriet to bed.  “You don’t have to go to bed yet, boys, but don’t stay up too late.  I’ve laid out a cot for you, Sherlock, and a pile of extra blankets if you need them.”

“We got it, Mum,” John interjected.

“Don’t hesitate to get me if you need anything –“

“Fine, Mum!”

Mrs. Watson flapped her hand affectionately at him and waved as she made her way up the stairs, ushering Harry ahead of her.

John sighed with relief and sank bank in his chair next to the fire.  “Merlin, my mum’s embarrassing.”

Sherlock shrugged, unsure what to say to that.  He shifted on his pouf in front of the fire and studied John’s face, biting his lip.  John’s eyes were closed and he had a small smile on his face.  He looked peaceful, warm…

“Why haven’t we kissed?” Sherlock blurted.

John started and stared at Sherlock.  “What?”

Sherlock flushed.  “Well we haven’t.  I thought you, as an _average_ teenage boy,” he ignored John’s long-suffering look, “might be the sort of person to be interested in that kind of thing.”

John wasn’t fooled.  “So I take it you are interested?  I thought… maybe it was too fast, or you weren’t interested.  I mean.  Um,” he halted and folded his hands in his lap.

“Well.  I could admit to some curiosity.  Scientifically speaking.” Sherlock examined his fingernails nonchalantly.

“Is that so?” John was grinning at him, leaning forward.

“Possibly.”

“Good.”  John was very close now.

“I –“ Sherlock stammered.  He wanted to apologize in advance for the rubbish performance he was certain he would give.

“Shh.” John reached out and gently trailed his knuckles over Sherlock’s cheek.  His hand came to rest under Sherlock’s ear, his palm curling around his jaw, fingers tangling through curls.  He closed his eyes and leaned in, gently pressing his lips to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock kept his eyes open, trying in vain to focus on John’s face in front of him.  John’s thumb was rubbing gently at his cheekbone.  The small touch was warm, nearly electric, and it was _distracting._   Before Sherlock could properly begin to analyze the kiss John was moving away, lips pulling slightly against Sherlock’s as if reluctant to let go.  John was smiling, but as his eyes opened his smile began to falter at the expression on Sherlock’s face.  “I’m – was it that bad?”

Sherlock blinked at him.  “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.

John turned scarlet and ducked his head, hiding his eyes behind one hand.  “I – sorry.  Just, sorry.”

Sherlock was perplexed.  How did John expect him to have a proper context for judging the quality of the kiss with no experience?  “I didn’t want you to stop,” he said as gently as he could, resting a hand on John’s shoulder.

John looked up at him skeptically.  “But you thought it was bad.”

“I have no idea if it was bad or not.  I’ve never been kissed before.  Therefore I have no basis on which to make an evaluation.”

“For the love of –“ John swore, collapsing back into his seat.  He glared at Sherlock for a few seconds before shaking his head and starting to chuckle.  “Only you.  Only you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled shyly.  “I’d do it again.”

John laughed.  “Okay then.”

He leaned in once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so shit. I… forgive me. Emerald City Comic Con happened and cosplay needed to be finished. Which meant me helping my housemates do their costumes (read: me doing most of the work on their costumes because I’m an art major and apparently this means they need me?). Maybe I shouldn’t have started this before ECCC.
> 
> If I'm this slow again, send me a message on Tumblr and PESTER ME. PLEASE, I NEED IT.


	6. Wearing Each Other's Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs John's clothes for an experiment.

Sherlock looked warily at John’s sleeping figure in the bed next to him.  He couldn’t sleep, and he figured now was as good a time as any to try an experiment.  Mr. Watson, a healer at St. Mungos, had even invited him to use his potions equipment in the basement, greatly enthused by his interest in experimental potions work.

Well.  Probably he meant Sherlock should use the laboratory under his supervision, but he hadn’t been explicit.

Sherlock looked through his bag, pursing his lips.  None of the clothes he’d brought would work.  His gaze caught on a thick red and gold jumper thrown on the back on John’s desk chair.  _Perfect_ , Sherlock thought, pulling it over his pajama shirt.  He rummaged around in John’s trunk until he found a pair of heavy wool trousers, tugging them on and scowling as they finished several inches too short.  A quick search revealed a pair of wellies at the back of John’s closet, which would serve admirably despite the slight pinching of his toes.

He slunk downstairs, careful not to disturb anyone, and smiled in satisfaction as he struck a light, illuminating the gleaming array of beakers and vials in front of him.  Excellent.

 

John opened his eyes blearily.  The sun was bright in his face and he groaned, turning over and looking towards Sherlock’s cot at the other end of the room.  Sherlock wasn’t in it.

John frowned and sat up.  Sherlock was never up before John unless he hadn’t fallen asleep the night before.  He stretched and got out of bed, looking around for his jumper.  Surely he’d left it on the chair the night before?  He yawned and pulled on his dressing gown.  Time to find Sherlock.

He wasn’t in the family room, the kitchen, or on the back porch.  John was just about to start searching down the lane in a vague hope Sherlock had gone for a walk when he heard a few muffled pops from the basement.  He glanced down the stairwell and his eyes widened.  A glowing, sunny orange liquid was seeping under the door and slithering its way up each stone step.  John edged toward it cautiously.  “Dad?” he called out.

“Don’t come in, John!” Sherlock’s strained voice came from the other side of the door.

John cursed and ran to the door to fetch his trainers.  He wasn’t going to let Sherlock destroy his father’s laboratory.  He laced them up quickly and grabbed an umbrella from the stand in the hall before striding back downstairs.  The liquid had moved up a step, and John poked at it cautiously with the umbrella.  The tip of the umbrella stuck slightly before pulling away cleanly, and John studied it carefully.  It seemed unharmed.

John steeled himself and stepped down, pushing the door open.  “Sherlock –“ he froze, his jaw dropping open.

Every inch of the laboratory floor was covered with the orange liquid, and it was slowly climbing up the walls and the legs of the furniture around the room.  Sherlock was perched cross-legged on a stool, clad only in his pants, looking with satisfaction at the mess.  His hair was in complete disarray and he was eerily lit from underneath by the glowing liquid.  John privately thought he looked quite mad.  “Isn’t it fascinating, John?  I haven’t quite worked out what it is, but it was very volatile just a few minutes ago.”

John gaped at him.  “Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

“Mm?  Oh, I was, but they got hit when the cauldron exploded.”

“The cauldron – Sherlock, that cauldron cost my dad a hundred Galleons!  It’s explosion-proof!”

“Apparently not,” Sherlock quipped.  “I’ve tried a vanishing charm but it only seems to have multiplied what was already there.  Do you think fire would work?”

“No, no fire, Sherlock, just –“ John stopped and his jaw clenched.  “Is that my jumper?” He asked loudly.

Sherlock glanced at the sodden pile beside him.  “Yes.  Your trousers and your wellies too.”

“My –“ John was nearly apoplectic with rage.  “SHERLOCK!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not totally satisfied with this chapter, and I may come back and edit it at some point. C'est la vie.

**Author's Note:**

> (Christ these are supposed to be drabbles why did this turn out so long)
> 
> (Also, can you tell which house I'm in? _*wink wink_ )


End file.
